


A Flower Does Not Choose Its Color

by Petyrs



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Stoker (2013)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-07-02
Packaged: 2017-12-14 16:33:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petyrs/pseuds/Petyrs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ned Stark is dead, executed for treason. Sansa is a captive in the Red Keep, betrothed to the young King Joffrey.  Queen Cersei has publicly taken the girl under her wing, but behind castle walls she is cold and cruel. The status quo is shaken when the long-absent Master of Coin Petyr Baelish returns from his travels around Westeros. Is his interest in Sansa merely a showing of duty, to honor his childhood friendship with her mother? Or could there be something to the lascivious rumors that have set southron tongues wagging?</p><p>Game of Thrones/Stoker (film) AU. Sansa and Joffrey are both 18+. Inspired by this edit (not mine): http://bit.ly/13yqjNz, although liberties will be taken with all source material to fit my devious needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Game of Thrones, A Song of Ice and Fire, or Stoker. Anything profitable, popular, or film-industry-based is not mine. This adaptation, however, is mine.

_My father has died._

_My father, the traitor, has died._

_My father, the traitor, was executed._

_My father, the traitor, was executed for questioning Joffrey’s claim to the Iron Throne. His death was merciful, they say, but merciful for whom? He lost his head with honor, if such a thing even matters here. And the bite of steel was quick and smooth._ Painless _, the executioner assures me with a leering smile. But the real pain in death is not suffered by the condemned, I have learned that lesson. And now I sit perched in my gilded cage, a wolf in golden chains, waiting to be wed. Sometimes I catch myself staring, contemplating my betrothed’s neck. I wonder, would it look like my father’s, if the flesh were stripped and the head removed? Unpleasant thoughts for such a well-bred lady. Have I changed so much, become so hard? I don’t know. There is so little I am sure of now, in these days of endless summer._

_My father, the traitor, was executed._

_My father, the traitor, has died._

_My father is dead._


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unconventional burial. Shadows. Family dynamics. An introduction.

_My ears hear what others cannot hear; small faraway things people cannot normally see are visible to me. **These senses are the fruits of a lifetime of longing, longing to be rescued, to be completed.**_

__

* * *

      “And how is my sweet Sansa this morning? Did you rest well, my darling?” His voice like tin, thin and brittle and cheap, scrapes against my ears. The book I have not been reading for days slides easily along my silken skirt to the cushioned bench. I squeeze my eyes shut, determined to meet his eyes with smiling features, but as I turn to my king I can feel the unnatural, jagged line my lips cut across my face. I am out of practice.

     “The beds in King’s Landing are the softest I have ever laid in, my lord. I cannot imagine a more comfortable place to lay my head.” He is too busy perfecting his regal stance in the mirror by my door to hear the acid flowing beneath my words, all the better for me. “You do me a great honor, calling on me this morning. How may I be of service to my king?” And now he grins wildly at my devotion, too young, too pompous to hear how hollow my words are and I realize _We are all so young, just children_ _playing with wooden swords_ but his lips are moving excitedly and I force myself to take in his words.

      “- - a final goodbye, I felt I owed my love that much in her grief. No matter the crime.” His hand is extended and I know I should take it.  I rise with more grace than I feel. His face is expectant.

     “My prince does me a great kindness. I am in your debt.” My response deemed appropriate, he grasps my hand in reassurance but his palm is sweaty and his eyes are hard. As a reflex of chivalry, he tucks my arm into his as he re-opens my chamber door. His Hound glares down at me and I cannot help but clutch the prince’s arm closer. He laughs and leads me down a corridor, the Hound at our heels.

     We walk in silence. I keep my eyes downcast to avoid pitying glances; I wish that I could meet their accusing glares, but my strength fails next to my escort. I have already learned the ramifications of his quick temper. Soon I feel the sun on my scalp and a light breeze brushes wisps of hair across my eyes. I look up and for a moment, with the glare and my red tresses and the swaying of the wind, I could swear the world had caught fire. But we emerge unscathed onto the battlements of the Red Keep and the caress of the morning breeze is replaced with the stinging smell of decay. I know why I am here and I hate myself for believing it was settled.

     My father looks down on me once more, but there is nothing in his eyes. No love, no concern, no reprimand, no fear. Only emptiness. And soon the ravens will take that from him as well. My stomach lurches at the thought and I disentangle myself from the cruel boy with laughing eyes at my side, drawn forward to my protector, my only remaining kin here.

     “Go on then! Look at him, say _Farewell Father_!” He laughs as if he has something to prove but it is all I can do to stand passively, so my mouth stays silent. “Do it. Say it! Sansa! _Say_. _It_.” He hunts for the right words, the right tone for his threats but he cannot force my humiliation any further. I address the castle wall before me.

     “My father lost his head because I could not hold my tongue. Would you take mine for keeping it silent now? _My king_?” I whirl around to my fiancée and I can feel my eyes widen as his narrow and he raises a hand to strike. _We were never playing with wooden swords. I was just too foolish to see their edges_. I brace for the blow.

     “My lord!” A King’s Guardsman I never knew was there implores for my protection and the king pauses. “A lord should never strike his lady, particularly a king.” _How noble_. Earning a permissive nod from his master the knight takes a self-assured step forward and splits my lip with a single _thwack!_ across my face. Staggering backwards, all I can see now is the king broken beneath the battlements, a simple push even a weak, foolish girl could manage and I must look capable because the next voice I hear is the Hound’s.

     “Enough. Joffrey, my king, you have made your point. Now allow your lady to collect herself. In private. I shall ensure she reaches her chambers untouched.” As the king sweeps away with his gilded thugs the Hound takes my bruised chin firmly between his fingers, wrenching it upwards. “You would do best to obey, and give him what he asks. There is no easy road for you now child, but you needn’t willfully drag your skirts through the dung.” And with that he took his leave.

     I still do not know why I lingered, staring at the splintering planks beneath my silk slippers. But as I looked up to go, to leave my father one final time, I caught sight of a figure whose eyes I could _feel_ even with his face hidden by shadows. I opened my mouth to call out and he was gone in a soft swirl of his cloaks and I was alone.

 

* * *

     That evening I dined with the king and his mother; if she knew anything of my treatment that morning she made a point of ignoring it. Even my bruises passed unremarked before the meal. I know publicly she insists she loves me as her own and I know privately she detests me. But there is an intelligence behind her fair eyes that I have never seen in the young king’s, so I tread carefully whenever I am forced to speak with her. I stare at my food and try willing it to be appetizing. It is not working.

     “Sansa, darling, I cannot remember the last time someone looked so glum at my table. Perk up, my dear.” There is a bright smile on her lips but it dies before reaching her steely eyes.  I return the smile and can feel my eyes lying too.

    “And when was the last time you invited the daughter of a dead man to dine at your table, my queen?” The silence falls angry and oppressive over the table and my shoulders stay slumped but my nails are carving crescents into the soft underside of my chair. A knocking at the door startles all of us, yet Cersei’s gaze lingers on me for a beat before bidding the guest to enter. _A white knight to my rescue_ I cannot help but think as I cling to my seat cushion.

     The visitor is short but carries himself as a much taller man. He has chestnut hair that flares to silver at his temples while the neatly trimmed whiskers at his chin and upper lip retain the darkness of youth. He is smirking but it has an air of confidence, not insolence. He is taking short, quick steps to the queen’s side and raising her fingers to his lips. He is bowing to the king. He is turning to look at me and I am caught in a pair of grey-green pools and he is smiling now, genuinely, for the first time since entering as he reaches for my hand. “Lady Sansa,” he breathes across my knuckles before pressing them to his mouth. If I were more foolish I would call the gesture, his expression _intimate_. “Petyr Baelish, at your service m'lady.”

     He is the man from the battlements. And he is looking at me like the hunter who has sighted his prey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own none of the money makers. Other updates will be slower, you can count on it. But in the interim, feedback is most appreciated -grabby hands-


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Digestif. Interludes. An arrival.

_They said I’d gone south // Said I’d gone asunder // They don’t know hunger, **what I’ve been under**_

__

* * *

Cersei’s mood has improved greatly with the arrival of Lord Baelish; it is not just the rich yellow wine that is making her eyes sparkle. The plates were cleared long ago and none of the taste of the sweetmeats is left in my mouth, only a bland stickiness. The king is prattling on about his new steel to Lord Baelish while the queen mother looks on, an indulgent smile on her face; I am all but forgotten, even to be dismissed.  Still, a lady does not slouch or complain, so I sit still and paste a look of quiet interest on my face; the new lord, however, is not as easily fooled as the Lannisters.

“I would wager that our Lady Sansa is above such petty, masculine interests as Valyrian workmanship, hm?” Baelish spoke softly, almost kindly, but his eyes laughed when he turned them on me, and I am unsure who is meant to be the butt of the joke.

“On the contrary my lord; it is Valyrian steel and other such arts that protect our realm. It should be the concern of any Westerosi, although I admit I cannot have the depth of appreciation a man might bear for such craftsmanship.” I realize I am speaking in clipped tones, entirely too rude, but I cannot summon the energy to care. A smile begins to creep across the lord’s face, though neither of the Lannisters appear perturbed; perhaps the steward’s heavy hand with the wine is working in my favor. “What I am not above, my dear Lord Baelish, is hearing tell of your journeys. Fifteen years is a long time for a small council member to take leave of the capitol, is it not?”

Cersei huffs quietly; the king rolls his eyes; Baelish’s smile widens. “Honestly, Sansa, I don’t think Lord Baelish wants to be kept up half the night telling stories about places you’ve never vi- “ “Not at all, my queen,” Baelish interjects smoothly. “Stories about faraway places are often the most enjoyable.” He smiles at us both in turn, indulgently at Cersei and…intimately, almost, towards me. “Regrettably, I have spent most of those years high above any adventures in the Eyrie. My strengths run more towards books and figures than swordplay, I’m afraid.” His face is a subtle mask of self-satisfaction, displaying none of the chagrin his words intone.

“Lord Baelish left for the Vale not long after you reached the Red Keep, my girl,” Cersei begins to explain, her eyes remaining on the lord. “The late king made many changes following the arrival of your father all those years ago, including the dispersal of some of his most loyal counselors across the realm. Some might say that the seclusion of such a clever man as Lord Baelish is a crime unto itself.” She smiles at her compliment then, but Baelish appears not to hear it- his eyes have not left my face since his interruption of the king, just as mine have not left his. I know we have entered into some kind of game, but the stakes remain unknown to me.

After a beat, a bright smile sweeps his features and he turns to the queen. “Your grace is too kind to her humble servant. I wish I might stay in hopes of further undeserved flattery, but I have had a long day’s ride and must plead my dismissal. I daresay the king and his lady-love are overtired as well?” He faces each of us, but I would swear his eyes harden to mossy flint as they fall on my face. “A girl needs her beauty rest, wouldn’t you say Lady Sansa?”

“Thank goodness I am a girl no longer… _my lord_. But you are quite correct, the hour draws late and I would be grateful if the queen might grant me leave to return to my chambers.” This last part I deliver to Cersei, trying to inject subservience into my voice. She nods curtly and I rise to leave; the king makes a half-hearted gesture as if to escort me to my room but I force a smile and gentle shake of my head, allowing him to sink back to his chair. I feel Baelish’s eyes on my back as I make my way to the door. His words continue to vex me; I had been a fool to hope the games would end with my father’s execution, but the arrival of a new player on the board compromises my survival even further. _Tomorrow morning_ , I promise myself, _the grieving must end_. I may find the Lannisters increasingly narrow-minded in their goals, but it would appear this Lord Baelish is playing at a game with shades of grey, not black and white.

At the door I turn and offer a shallow curtsey to the royals, a deep inclination of my head to the newcomer. “Sleep well, your graces. A pleasure to have met you my lord,” I intone, with courtesy that would have made my septa proud. The king sneers and Cersei flicks her head dismissively. As the door shuts, Baelish’s voice floats into the corridor, nipping at my heels. “Sweet dreams, my lady…”

 

* * *

 

The following morning I rise before the sun with an aching head and heavy heart. Shadows of my dreams cling to me, making me shiver in the pre-dawn, but the details slip through my fingers like so many wisps of grey smoke. I am at my window, staring at nothing, when a girl enters and declares that the queen and her son expect my presence as they break the fast. I stiffen my spine and remember my vow of last night. I must be strong, and cold, and quick from this day on. I am my own salvation now.

Baelish is the first to see me enter the royal solar; his eyes reflect the sparkle of a silver bird pinned to his breast. A marigold undershirt peeks out from the throat and sleeves of his coat; I wonder briefly why I would notice such a detail. “Ah, Lady Sansa,” he grins wolfishly. “We were beginning to wonder if you would join us.” Cersei’s brow knits imperceptibly at my arrival, as if I have intruded on a private moment. The king turns to face me with a saccharine smile plastered on his face. I return it. “Please join us my love,” he says, nodding to the empty seat at his left.

“Gladly, your grace.” I slide gently into the chair, Baelish’s eyes boring into me as I settle my skirts around my legs. A servant materializes with a platter of food. “The queen was just informing me about the many changes that have been made to the gardens of the Red Keep during my absence, although I doubt I would notice them. Botany has never proven itself a useful subject to a man of my profession. Still, perhaps the young couple would like to join us on the tour she has promised?”

Cersei frosts over. “Oh, but Lord Baelish, the king has so much to attend to, and Lady Sansa…well, I would hate to distract you from your…,” she trails off, twisting her hand in the air as if she would stir some conclusion to the surface. At least she does not attempt to insert a half-hearted lie about what occupies my days. “Of course, I quite forgot myself your grace. Perhaps another time.” The apology he directs to me alone. Bright strawberry juice glistens in his beard.

 

* * *

 

I watch part of their stroll through the gardens from my window; the queen’s arm is twined in his, Baelish’s head inclined politely towards her rapidly moving mouth. As she pauses at a bubbling fountain, he looks over her shoulder. At me. _No, impossible, I am too high to see from so far below_. He nods, a smirk on his lips, and then the moment is over. My windows stay shuttered the rest of the week.

 

* * *

 

I keep to my rooms as much as possible. The king’s attitude towards me remains one of leering disdain, to which Cersei turns a blind eye. Baelish, by contrast, watches it all with a practiced detachment, like a maester may watch a limb blacken with rot, waiting for some final sign before slicing away the decay. He frightens me and yet I am sure he means me no harm. I have the strange sensation he is the only person in King’s Landing who would mourn my absence, though what pleasure he takes from my distant, forced company is beyond my reckoning. Occasionally I think of seeking him out, demanding an explanation; but what he has to explain I do not know. Furtive glances? Half smiles? Jesting eyes and raised eyebrows? I am sure it is real and I am sure I have imagined it all. I keep silent and try to watch him as closely as I know he watches me at every gathering.

 

* * *

 

Almost a fortnight after Lord Baelish’s arrival, another council member returns to court. Lord Varys, with his perfumed robes and soft skin, has always unsettled me despite his impeccable manners. I cannot imagine why he would be joining us for dinner in the royal solar (Baelish is a near constant presence now, at the queen’s insistence), but I have the impression it is more at his own invitation than Cersei or the king’s. Waiting on the desserts, and following a stilted conversation with the king, he turns to me. “My child, I must say you look ever more lovely each time we meet. I fear the historians will be at one another’s throats deciding who shone more brightly, you or your mother-in-law.”

“Mother-in-law _to be_ ,” Cersei interjects coldly. As of late, even her son is treated as an unnecessary guest at the table. Varys has the grace to look abashed by the queen’s words.

“You are too generous, Lord Varys,” I murmur, “But where I may be the moon, our queen is a blazing sun. What beauty I possess is a mere reflection of her care and kindness.” Cersei narrows her eyes in suspicion, I rarely have a kind word to spare for her amongst all the empty pleasantries, but Varys nods approvingly. “Well said, my lady. I am corrected, _for now_.” He winks exaggeratedly at me while smiling broadly across the table at the realm’s shining sun.

Baelish fills the silence, which has relaxed only a little. “A moon you are indeed, Lady Sansa. I fear your coloring has gone even paler in recent days; I do hope you are not ill?” He leans towards me then, peering into my eyes as if he might divine some hidden ailment. He knows I have been avoiding him at every turn, keeping to the safety of my rooms.

“Your concern is touching, Lord Baelish, but I assure you I am in the peak of health.” My smile is pointed as I look down to where his arm now rests between us; he withdraws slowly, deliberately. I turn back to Varys. “Will you be as constant a visitor as Lord Baelish is to our table, Lord Varys?”

“No, m’lady,” he replies with a small shake of the head, “I fear my stay in King’s Landing is a short one. I did, however, wish to speak with the queen before I take my leave.” A strained look at Cersei now; her jaw tenses; the king stares disinterestedly into his goblet; Baelish straightens his back in his seat, alert. “With so many changes in the capitol, in such a short time, I fear there are things she should know. Things that went unsaid by his grace before his unfortunate passing…”

“Lord Varys, if my husband did not see fit to reveal such things to me on his deathbed, I daresay he would not give two whits if I should ever learn them. Though your concern is deeply appreciated.” Her smile would cut a lesser man in two, but Varys remains firm.

“Well, perhaps on the morrow. It grows late-““No, I am afraid I will have a head ache in the morning. I often do.” Varys makes a vaguely sympathetic noise. “I will send word should it clear. Which is unlikely.”

“As you please, your grace. I shall await your summons.” To his credit, Varys remains unflappable. I wonder idly if he will even glimpse the queen before he must away again. “Perhaps the Lady Sansa will see me to my rooms? I grow old and creaky my dear, the arm of a young woman is always appreciated when I walk.” I give a graceful nod and rise, offering my arm. _How could I refuse?_ “Goodnight Sansa,” Cersei says to my back. _At least I need not return._ “Yes, until tomorrow, Lady Sansa. Sleep well.” The king’s farewell is hollow, distant; I thank the gods for small favors.

When Varys and I have hobbled out the door of the solar, he whirls to me with the dexterity of a man as young as the king. “Come to me tomorrow after you wake…I am a _eunuch_ my dear, you need not look so affronted. Your guard will know the way. I cannot linger here for long and-“ The door creaks open behind me and Baelish’s voice echoes in the corridor. “Ah Varys, you haven’t tottered far I see. Good. I have convinced the queen she might spare one of her guards to guide you home.” A young man emerges behind Baelish; tall, blonde, undoubtedly Lannister. “I daresay the Lady Sansa is not the most natural choice of walking stick.”

Cornered, Varys nods stiffly. “How considerate, Petyr. Your years in the Vale have softened you it would seem.” He is rewarded with a smirk. “Then I will bid you goodnight, dear girl.” My hands are clasped in his; I feel an overwhelming urge to yank them back and wipe them on my skirts. He pulls me close. “I shall see you soon,” he whispers roughly, before the guard takes his arm and leads him away, playing the old man again.

“Please, allow me to escort you to bed. Well- to your rooms, m’lady.” The slip is deliberate. My stomach lurches, not entirely in disgust. He extends a hand, dry and warm in contrast the wet clamminess of Vary’s palms. “I do not wish to be any inconvenience my lord. I can find my way well enough.” _Please accept it. Please._ “Such a thing would be impossible, Lady Sansa. Besides, my rooms are not too far above yours in the tower. Didn’t you know?” I am trapped between his courtesy and my manners. His thumb strokes my palm absently as we walk.

Outside the door to my rooms, he offers a small, fluid bow. A smile extends across his face. A moment’s hesitation and then his lips are on my cheek, fingers wrapped loosely around my arms. I can feel his heat through my sleeves. His stubble scratches pleasantly. I close my eyes, lashes brushing his face, and I breathe in the smell of dust and nutmeg and cold stone and the warm tang from the mint he chewed on lazily after dinner and something else I cannot place, although the word _ancient_ comes to my mind. Baelish pulls away then, nose nearly brushing mine; he is not smiling any more, but I see something akin to pride in his eyes. _Or triumph?_

“Pleasant dreams, Lady Sansa.” And he is gone. I begin to fear I am too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own none of the money makers. The entire story has a rough outline now, so let's hope for somewhat constant inspiration. Comments, thoughts, speculations are always appreciated -grabby hands-. Until next time...
> 
> Also, for those who like a peek ahead, the next chapter's headings are: "A departure. The stand. Implications."


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A departure. The stand. Implications.

_Sometimes you need to do **something** **bad** …_

* * *

              I wake in the dark, my chambers illuminated faintly by the light of the moon. The _unpleasantness_ surrounding my father never elicited nightmares, but tonight I regain consciousness gasping, with a thudding heart. Varys’ face still floats in front of me, but his soft eyes turn hard and green; he smiles, but it is Baelish’s lips, Baelish’s teeth, stained red by the summer strawberries…I squeeze my eyes shut against the vision and shake my head so hard my braids come loose.

              I feel shudders deep in my chest, but it is steady fingers that rewind the plait down my back. Still panting from the memory of my dream, fading fast in the gloom of wakefulness, I lay back in the bed, but sleep will not return. I turn on my side and curl into myself as I used to do as a girl, when my mother would sing me to sleep and stroke my hair, cocooning myself in sheets and quilts against the shadows. I wait for the sun to rise, to dress for the secret morning meeting, and watch the moonlight trace a gentle path across the floor.

 

* * *

 

                I never hear Varys’ secrets.

               There was a boy waiting at my door when I slipped out soon after first light, and he guided me through dark, narrow halls to a simple wooden door like all the rest in the Keep and knocked briskly, sparing me a brief glance before scampering away the way we had come. Momentarily dumbfounded, I straighten the crease between my brows and relax my lips, composing my face into a careful expression of neutrality for the eunuch. But the door remains shut. _Perhaps he is still abed?_ I raise my knuckles to knock again, but already I know something is not right. This visit was important to him and he would not have it foiled by poor hearing.

                I knock a second time and the reports reverberate down the hall; but no, it is footsteps, not echoes that I hear. Straining my ears, they seem to come from the opposite direction the boy and I walked so I whirl about in search of an alcove to hide in. There is nothing but smooth stone and wooden doors, and the footsteps sound nearer. Frantic, I tug at a door behind me but it doesn’t budge. Stepping back into the middle of the hall I think to run but the footsteps are too close, so I do the only thing left to me; I start walking towards them.

                “Lady Sansa, _my_ , you are up early. What could have lured you to this part of the Keep?” Baelish. My eyes dart to Varys’ door and his follow slowly. _Of course he knows. So, tell him what he already knows._ “I was calling on Lord Varys; we had such a pleasant conversation yesterday evening, I wished to finish it. And you, Lord Baelish? What could have lured _you_ to this part of the Keep, so _early_?” My insolence is met with a smirk and quiet chuckle, a far cry from the reaction of the king and his thugs.

                “Simply taking my morning walk, I find I enjoy my breakfast more after one.” He steps closer, seeming to glide across the floor in his long overcoat, but keeps the distance respectable. “Such a suspicious tone, though, m’lady.” Another step, then another, creeping closer. I want to turn, back away, but I am sick of yielding ground to every southroner I meet. “It almost makes one think…,” he lowers his voice, drawing up next to me, leaning askance, his lips brushing my ear lobe, “…that you were _up to something_.”

                I slide my eyes slowly to his and he retreats back to himself, turning at the waist to face me. I paint the most exaggerated look of sympathy across my features. “Oh, my lord, I fear you think too much sometimes.” His face tightens, but he is not angry. _Is he holding back a_ grin _?_ Before he can respond, I stride off in a swirl of skirts, exulting. _You are not the only one capable of walking away, my dear Lord Baelish. I can learn._

* * *

 

                Breakfast is shaping up to be a relatively dull affair, until Cersei, magically cured of her head pains, mentions her unwelcome guest of the night before. The king is nowhere to be seen, likely still sleeping. The luxuries of the throne. “I hope the eunuch did not harangue you too much yesterday, my dear. His whispers can prove most useful, I grant him that, but not every rumor is worth repeating,” she says in exasperation.

                Petyr reaches out and places his fingers on her arm lightly. “I wouldn’t worry overmuch, your grace. Some whisperers of my own said he left the capitol before sunrise. And I can say with some certainty they are true; I went calling to his rooms this morning to find them empty. I am sure in a fortnight we will hear he has been safely installed at one of his usual posts.” He smiles at her then, but his eyes stay cold. With a sigh of relief, the queen excuses herself without a second glance to me.

                Alone at the table, Baelish quirks an eyebrow in my direction, a thoughtful smile playing across his lips. He is surveying me, awaiting some kind of objection from me. But he has played a silent, subtle game until now; I may be floundering, but I refuse to surrender what little solid ground I have. “If you will excuse me, my lord, I fear I must be leaving as well.” His smile bursts into a grin as I walk out the door.

 

* * *

 

                I am sitting by the western window, making neat stiches in the corner of the handkerchief, when I hear a pounding at my door. Before I might bid them to enter, the door is jolted open and my betrothed’s Hound strides in. “King Joffrey would see you in his rooms. He regrets missing you this morning,” he announces gruffly. I am not taken aback enough to forget my courtesies, but the dog’s sudden appearance has made my blood turn frosty.           

                “Most certainly, ser. If I may only finish this stitching,” I raise the scrap of fabric for his inspection, “then I could bring a small gift for the king, along with my presence. I will only be a moment.” The Hound raises the work up to his face lightly, then his grip tightens and he flings it across the floor; my fingers tighten reflexively on the needle as I feel the tug and it stays behind, digging into my palm. “The king is not made to wait. You will go _now_ , girl. Or did you forget my earlier advice?” He stalks toward me and I cower back until I am pressed to the window.

                “Stop it! You’re frightening me!” I can’t help but gasp, turning from his scarred face. He reaches for me then and my hands fly up in defense, but I am still holding the stitching needle. I cry out in shock when it sinks into the flesh of his throat. He grunts at the prick, more in irritated surprise than pain, he is so large and the needle so small. Slowly, the Hound steps away from me; I quiver as he draws the thin metal from his skin and inspects the film of blood that coats it. “Very well, my lady,” he says, turning his gaze back to me. “I shall deliver your sentiments to our king.” Suspending the needle between us, to make sure I can see, he opens his fingers and it tinkles to the floor.

                I wait only a few moments after he has slammed the door behind him and then I am running. Anywhere.

* * *

 

                When dusk settles on the gardens, I have not been crying for hours. The ache beneath my eyes has lessened and when I raise my fingers to them, I can no longer feel the puffiness tears bring. Soon, I may be presentable enough to creep back to my chambers. In the meantime, I stand and cross the small grotto to inspect a vibrant blue bloom. “Winter Roses, they are called here.” _How did he find me?_ “Although they are woefully intolerable of the cold, I am afraid. Perhaps it is the color that earned them their name.” His steps are slow and deliberate. _He is giving me a chance to send him away._

                When he has drawn up to my left, I speak. “I thought botany had always escaped you, Lord Baelish. So useless to one who counts gold.” “Most any subject is extraneous to one who counts gold.” “But you told the queen-“ “What she wished to hear,” he replies smoothly, still staring at the flowers. I reach out to pluck a blossom, _a Winter Rose for a Winter Girl_ , but as I am twisting the stalk I catch my finger on a thorn; I let out a quiet exclamation and pull back, dropping the flower.

                Deftly, he turns to me and encircles my wrist with his fingers, long and thin but with a sinewy strength to them. The grip is light but firm; I could not pull away if I tried. My gaze drifts from the growing droplet of blood on my finger to where he is touching me. _A golden undershirt, again. And I’ve noticed, again._ I blush. “You’re hurt,” he says simply. “It- it’s nothing, my lord. A small prick, no more.” We are standing as close now as we were when he kissed me the night before, and my breath quickens at the memory. “Like the one you gifted to the Hound, hm?” A simple question to follow his simple statement, but I feel my face crumple.

                “Shhh, you’ll find no retribution from me.” He raises his other hand to rest lightly on my cheek. “Although, next time, you may wish to find a slightly larger blade to defend yourself with, my lady.” There is laughter in his eyes and his fingers trail down my face to trace my throat before he lets them rest heavily on my shoulder; we could pass as a pair of dancers, arranged just so. “Now, come closer. Let me tend your cut.” Gripping my shoulder, he pulls me even nearer, so close we are sharing breaths. As he pulls my injured finger to eye level, I manage to stammer, “No need, my lord, tru- truly. I can bind it in my rooms.” He looks at me now, for the first time. His cold irises have gone hot and my stomach ( _no, lower_ ) twitches in response.

                “Binding? No, no, a cut this small needs only to be cleaned.” Without breaking his stare he slips my finger between his lips. I stifle a gasp at his boldness but my stomach ( _no, lower_ ) lurches again. I feel the hand at my shoulder circle to my back, running down to press at the base of my spine. I brace my free hand against his chest at the gentle push, but still the only thing preventing a kiss is my hand between our mouths. He drags my captive finger along the surface of his tongue until only the injured tip rests in his mouth. As he swirls his tongue around the cut the fire in his eyes softens to a smolder; slowly, he laves the tip of his tongue against it as he pulls the final joint free from his lips, planting a gentle kiss on the wound before drawing back a hair’s breadth. “There now.” He turns my palm to face me, showing the clean, clear thorn prick.

                “Thank you,” I murmur, astonished I can keep the breathlessness from my voice, “for your kind attentions, Lord Baelish.” He drops his gaze, eyes closing, as he leans forward; I freeze, astonished, until he plants a firm kiss where my jaw meets my ear. I turn to brush my cheek against his, relishing in the scuff of his beard on me, and my stomach ( _no, lower_ ) twists almost painfully, but it is fleeting. He kneels, then, and rises back up swiftly with the forgotten blue rose clutched delicately in his fingers. Extending it to me, he breathes “ _Petyr_ , please, my lady,” and withdraws.

               As soon as his footfalls recede from hearing, my knees give way and I collapse heavily onto the stone bench I had abandoned a few long minutes ago, the rose all but forgotten in my lap. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok y'all, hold onto your butts because some serious sh-t is going down in the next couple of chapters. In the meantime, the summary teaser for next time: A break. The struggle. Intrigues. But until then, kill some time by offering feedback, speculations, etc. etc. etc. -grabby hands-


	5. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The struggle. A death. Intrigues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (!!!) There is an encounter of non-consensual nature in this chapter. I did not want to update the tags since it is the only instance of such a thing in the story, and not the central focus of the overall plot, but if that is uncomfortable subject material for you this may be a chapter you skip, or at least scroll quickly past that paragraph or so. To be safe, I still upped the rating to Explicit, since there will be some (consensual) adult content in the following chapter as well.

_…to stop you from doing **something** **worse**._

* * *

It is full dark when I creep back inside, the evening chill prickling through my light summer silks. Climbing the stairs to my room, I feel a slickness between my legs that is different, somehow, from my moon blood. When I reach my landing I pause and slide a hand down the front of my gown, brushing between my legs through the layers of fabric. The same place that churned at Petyr’s touch twinges at the contact now. I huff, frightened by the meaning of that shudder. What he did in the gardens was unsolicited and horrendously forward; I am the king’s fiancée, I should feel affronted, angry even, about his actions. Yet when I let my mind wander back to the feel of his tongue on that cut…

I toss my head as if I could shake the thoughts from my mind. Whatever he meant, whatever he made me feel, is irrelevant. It will not bring my father back, I remind myself, and it will not take me away from this wretched place. Sullen and frustrated, I shove open the door to my rooms and stalk into the chamber; it is shrouded in darkness since no fire has been lit, nor was food set aside to make up for my missed supper. I do not know if I expected otherwise, but I suddenly feel defeated. A high voice calling at my back makes me spin on my heels.

“Lady Sansa,” the king drones, “I have— _missed_ you today.” He rises from his seat at my small writing desk and saunters towards me. My nails dig into my palms; he must be here about the needle.  “Your grace…my apologies. I- I spent my afternoon in the gardens and quite forgot the time.” I am stammering, struggling to pull the shroud of grace and dignity back over myself. “I missed _you_ as well,” I falsely confess to him, pulling my lips up in a smile.

He mirrors my expression, but on his face the smile becomes a self-satisfied smirk. “Of course you did, sweetling. And my dog is such a poor substitute for a king…” He is trying to tower over me except I am nearly his height, so it is all I can do to keep from snorting. _That would be impolite._ “But you wouldn’t extend the same treatment to me…would you, sweetling?” he breathes into my ear, attempting to sound alluring. “ _Never_ , your grace. Only, I was so frightened and-” “Good. Show me your kind hospitality then,” he cuts in sharply. His mouth is on my neck at once, hot and wet and sucking.

I cry out in surprise, a vocalization he clearly takes as encouragement; he clutches at my waist and pushes me backwards until I am caught against the wall. One hand slides upwards to clasp greedily at my breast and he is so clumsy and rough, but after the fright of the Hound and Petyr’s game with the rose I feel my body respond involuntarily. I tilt my hips towards him and feel his stiffened cock trapped in his breeches. _I wonder if Baelish was hard this afternoon._ I squeeze my eyes shut at the thought; the king must take it as some kind of acquiescence, as he drags his mouth up to mine, capturing it in a slippery kiss. He thrusts his tongue past my lips and I wrinkle my nose at the stale taste of ale and red meat.

When he shoves one hand down my bodice and grinds into my hip, I jerk back, suddenly terrified. _Does he intend to take me here and now?_ I press my hands against his chest, trying to gain the space to breathe, to think; in retaliation, he bites my lower lip. _Hard._ “Joffrey!” It is the first time I’ve said his name since the execution, even in my head. I draw one hand up to my mouth and it comes away bloody. “You…you-” “You will address me as _Your Grace_ , Sansa, or it will go far worse for you,” he pants and then lunges to claim my lips again. I writhe in his arms, from terror, not pleasure, but he is too strong. The king’s fingers brush at my core, but there is no sweet twinge now, and I realize he is working at the laces of his breeches; that task accomplished, he starts digging at my skirts, trying to gather them at my waist.

I feel tears begin to leak out between my lashes when the king’s shoulder is wrenched back, his lips yanked from my face with an audible pop. There is a moment where he glares at me accusingly, as if I could have pulled him backwards, and then his body is thrown to the floor. His head smacks the ground with a squelching crunch and he is still; the episode happened so quickly he did not even have the chance to cry out.

I pull a fold of my dress down to cover the nakedness between my legs, hunching my shoulders protectively. Out of the shadows, Petyr steps forward. Slowly, warily. “…Sansa? ...Did he hurt you, sweetling?” There is concern in his voice, yet his expression…His face is just like my father’s when I was first allowed to sit a horse. After an inevitable tumble his eyes would cloud with worry, but not over my scrapes and bruises. _I know you are scared and I know you may hurt_ , they seemed to say, _but you are stronger than this. Stand. Try again._ I see the same look on Baelish’s face now. As he extends an open palm towards me I realize something else. _He knew this would come. Perhaps not tonight, perhaps not exactly like this. But he_ knew _._ I give him my hand and he draws me closer as his free fingers pluck lightly at my dress to release the bunching and folds and let it cover me once more. His eyes bore into me. _He is testing me and now it has cost the king his life. Oh well._

“He left me quite shaken, Lord Ba- Petyr. And he… _bit_ me. But I shall be fine. Thanks to you.” Satisfaction blooms in his eyes. _Whatever test he set me here, I have passed._ “Is he dead?” I try to sound anxious, but I think I come across as bored. “I’m pleased to hear you say that Sansa. I would not see you harmed,” he murmurs. Looking down to the prone figure below us, he continues. “Yes, I am afraid so.” His eyes meet mine again; they are appraising me now. “And we cannot allow him to be found here. Do you understand?” _We have to move the body._ I nod. “Good. Some men will be here shortly, men I trust. When they are gone you must try to sleep. We will be safe here tonight, perhaps a little longer than that, a few days even, but with the king dead…” _With the king dead, what use am I to the Lannisters?_ “I understand.” “Of course you do, Sansa. What _fools_ they have all been, to think you a simple little girl.” He beams at me then, and runs an affectionate hand down my cheek.

Before long, three men in dark cloaks that hide rustling chainmail slip into the room. One produces a rough woolen blanket and together they wordlessly wrap the limp boy into its folds. Finished, another tosses the bundle over his shoulder while his two companions finger the swords at their waists. Petyr stares at them for a long moment and then, with a curt nod, dismisses them back into the dark hall. Throughout the entire ordeal I can feel him staring at me as I gaze unseeing at the corpse, trying to summon a modicum of grief and failing.

Alone again, he rejoins my side. I extend my hand outwards and he clasps it in his own. “Thank you. Truly, Petyr, thank you.” I address the room in a hushed tone. He gives my fingers a gentle squeeze. “Do not offer your thanks _just_ yet, Sansa. But-,” he turns to look at me, smirking. “What else could I have done?” he asks with a shrug of his shoulders. I have no answer for him so I simply shake my head. When he makes as if to leave I tighten my grip and pull him back. “Please stay.” _What am I doing?_ At his disapproving look, I continue. “At least until I fall asleep. Please.” He face is unreadable, but he lets me lead him to the bed and I crawl beneath the sheets. He remains standing stoically to the side. “Not like that, Petyr, please.” _Fool. Send him away. Now._ I pull the blankets down. “Only until you fall asleep,” he commands. “Yes.” He slides next to me, still fully clothed, and gathers me to him in one fluid motion, gently pressing my cheek to his chest. His heartbeat is strong and steady and slow; gradually my breathing slows to match it, and I let myself fall away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See. I told you sh-t was going down. The show continues in the next chapter. Until then, feedback is always always always welcome -grabby hands- Don't forget to swing by my Tumblr(s), listed on my author profile, where some additional Petyr x Sansa drabbles can be found. /shamelessselfpromotion


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